


The Spanish Remedy

by Barbara69



Series: To Conquer Death [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Epidemic disease, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01, Sick Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: After a mission, Aramis falls seriously ill without hope for cure. Porthos won't accept his friend's fate and comes up with a bold plan. It's a race against time and the outcome of it all unpredictable at best.The story takes place between Ep1 and Ep2 of Season 1.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gecko10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gecko10/gifts).



> For my dear friend gecko10 -- Happy Birthday, honey!! I hope you enjoy some sick and suffering Aramis for your birthday. Have a wonderful day!
> 
> Many thanks to fredbasset for doing the beta and helping me to get this story into a publishable form. Once again, she did a great job! Remaining errors, typos and holes in the plot are all mine. Also, in a couple of scenes I'm hopping between POVs, apologies if this causes confusion.
> 
> This is the story Athos refers to in _While You Live, Your Troubles Are Many_ about how hope is never lost if Porthos is in charge, even if it looks like you're not going to make it out alive. It's the story no one asked for but I needed to write anyway.... Enjoy!

“And his answer is no.” Athos finished his report. “Not the worst, given the circumstances.” He tapped his hat to his thigh and a cloud of snowflakes that had unyieldingly stuck to the leather, erupted from his headgear. He had returned to the garrison as fast as possible, and not only to get the Duke's message back to Tréville in time, but to get out of the unpleasant weather as well. His gauntleted fingers were still stiff from the cold.

Tréville sighed. “Richelieu won't be delighted to hear it.”

“And that's what makes it even more enjoyable,” Athos replied with a lopsided grin, earning himself a stern look.

“Where's d'Artagnan?”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “How should I know? I returned less than five minutes ago.”

“Well, since you brought him here it's only fair that you keep an eye on him.”

“I didn't bring him. He turned up here and refused to leave.”

“I know.” Tréville gazed absent-mindedly past Athos. “My sister once had a stray dog who followed her home and refused to go. It stayed out in the rain for three days until my sister yielded and let it in. I know how persistent they can be.” He refocused on Athos. “Serge complained about him. I mean d'Artagnan, not my sister's dog. I can't remember what exactly it was the boy did wrong. Go and straighten things out, I don't want to go hungry for the next couple of days, Serge can be very resentful.”

“Why me?” Athos asked in surprise, a hint of reproach in his voice. Whatever the Gascon had done, it was certainly not Athos' problem and he couldn't follow Tréville's argument.

“He followed _you_ to the garrison, not me. He’s your puppy, not mine. Clear this up.” Tréville grabbed the missive Athos had returned and reached for a new sheet of paper. He turned his attention to his paperwork.

Speechless, Athos acknowledged the dismissal. He put on his hat and left the captain's office grumpily to make his way to the kitchens.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis returned to the garrison late in the afternoon from a mission to Blois, where King Louis' bastard brother, Gaston de Bourbon, currently resided. He had delivered a personal letter from the King, waited for the Duke's response for almost a day in the servants' quarters, and finally made his way back with the letter stowed away in his saddle bags just when a cold front had reached the area. It had been a long and exhausting trip, and Aramis could already feel a cold crawling up his throat. He longed for a warm hearth, Serge's bean stew and his own bed. Leaving his horse in the middle of the courtyard for Jacques to care about it, he headed up the stairs to the captain's office, taking two steps at a time. He knocked and entered. 

“Sir, I'm back from Blois with a letter for the King.”

“Aramis,” Tréville greeted, looking up from his desk. “I had hoped you would be back earlier. The King is already impatient. Complaining about the unreliability of his Musketeers and so on. Did everything go well?” He reached for the small bundle Aramis held out to him.

“Yes. I had to wait a day at the palace for Gaston's reply and the weather had worsened in the meantime. Otherwise I would have been back yesterday morning.”

“Thank you. You're released from duty for the rest of the day. You look like you could use a hot meal and some dry clothes. Dismissed!”

Aramis nodded and left the office. For a moment he pondered whether he should get out of his wet clothes first or eat something. His hunger prevailed and he made his way to the mess. If he would seat himself beside the fire, he could kill two birds with one stone. That way, his clothes could dry and his hunger be sated.

Aramis had his second filling and a third cup of wine when Porthos entered the mess. Seeing Aramis huddled next to the fireplace he walked over. “You're late,” the big man said, slumping down on the chair next to Aramis.

“Shut up,” Aramis replied, the words immediately followed by coughing. “Next time, you can have the mission to deliver something to that arrogant brat.”

Porthos barked a laugh and patted Aramis' shoulder. “Don't fret, I had to endure a Dutch delegation at the palace, and Louis' ranting after they had left. It wasn't a pleasure, either.” Porthos turned his head to let his gaze roam over the tables. “And you better keep away from Athos,” he advised. “Tréville ordered him to settle an issue with Serge, some row the pup has caused. I've already seen some of our comrades hiding from Athos' thunderous stare and grumpy mood. I'm not sure if he’s found d'Artagnan yet, so you better lay low for a while.”

No sooner had the words left Porthos' mouth than the door opened and a grim-faced Athos appeared in the doorway. He quickly scanned the room, then strode over to where Aramis and Porthos were sitting. Dragging a chair from the nearest table he seated himself opposite Aramis. He grabbed Aramis' cup and emptied its content in one gulp. “Congratulations,” he muttered, glowering at Aramis.

Aramis looked at Athos in surprise. “What for?”

“You're no longer the number one pain in my backside. Someone else has just inherited that job.”

“That bad?” Aramis asked. A smirked formed around the corners of his mouth, quickly turning into a full smile, then it was interrupted by another fit of coughing, harder this time than before.

“You've no idea,” Athos muttered. “I blame you two for his presence here, and I'm not going to let this slip.” He lent weight to his words by pointing his index finger at both men's faces. “You'll at least carry your share of the work.”

Porthos grabbed Athos' shoulder. “Don't worry, we'll not leave you in the lurch. Don't be so hard on him, he's really willing. He's just a little too eager and rash.”

“He's a farmboy. Have patience,” Aramis added.

The look Athos darted at them spoke for itself. Patience with d'Artagnan was something the former _comte_ explicitly had not.

“What’s he done to annoy you? Balzac said something about Serge having complained to Tréville? What in the Lord's name caused that?” Porthos asked. Serge was one of the most lenient soldiers he knew and he couldn't remember having ever heard of anybody who had incurred the cook's wrath. At least not if you didn't complain about the food.

“Don't. Ask.”

Another coughing fit shook Aramis, accompanied by a slight tremor running through his body. “ _Messieurs_ , I'll retire. I fear I've not only caught a cold but pneumonia. I hope I still have some of my mother's herbal concoction.” Aramis rose.

Both his friends squinted at him, obviously taking a closer look. Aramis was sure the sheen of sweat on his skin didn't escape their attention. He no longer felt only exhausted from a tough mission but really ill.

“Get well, my friend.” Porthos, too, rose, grabbing the chance to escape Athos. “I'm off. I need to help Hubert in the armoury. Tréville's order.”

Both men departed, leaving a brooding Athos behind in the mess

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Aramis failed to take up his usual place at Porthos' right side during morning muster, Porthos repeatedly shot questioning looks towards Athos. 

The latter countered each glance with a slight shrug or a rolling of his eyes. He had spent the time between waking up and reporting for morning muster avoiding the Gascon. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the young man lingering at the far back of the courtyard, but he choose to ignore him for the time being. It was definitely better for Athos' current frame of mind if d'Artagnan didn't cross his path.

“Dismissed!” Tréville barked, finished with assigning tasks and passing on Richelieu's usual complaints about the regiment.

“Where's Aramis?” Porthos asked as soon as Tréville had turned his back on the Musketeers.

“I haven't seen him, but given how he looked yesterday, I bet he's still in bed.” Athos could see d'Artagnan still loitering under the archway. Tréville hadn't mentioned the Gascon when he had announced the duty roster, nor had he tasked the boy with anything, and with a deep, internal sigh Athos realised that Tréville expected him to keep the boy busy with something. Maybe he could fob d'Artagnan off on Porthos. However, his hopes were soon crushed.

“Porthos!” Tréville's voice easily carried over the buzzing courtyard from his place on the balcony. “My office.”

Porthos sighed. “See you later,” he said to a disenchanted Athos, turning to the stairways to make his way to the captain's office.

Athos took a deep breath and turned to face what was lurking in the shadow. If d'Artagnan, who was, technically speaking, not yet a Musketeer or even an apprentice or recruit, had chosen the spot in the archway's shadow deliberately in the hope of escaping Athos' glowering ire for a while, then he would very soon see this hope crushed. Athos knew of quite a number of Musketeers who had advised the boy in hushed whispers to stay away from him if d'Artagnan was fond of his life. In Athos' eyes a fruitless advice. He had promised Serge d'Artagnan would get his just punishment after the boy had apologized lengthily to the cook. He would start with sword-fighting training until the boy didn't know what had hit him and afterwards he would assign him to help Jacques in the stables. A farmboy from Gascony certainly knew a lot about mucking out stables. Maybe Athos would even allow Jacques a half day off. A smirk spread on Athos' face while walking to an expectant yet slightly frightened looking d'Artagnan.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I haven't seen Aramis during muster. I hope I won't have to drag him from one of his many mistresses' beds?” Tréville looked up from his place behind the desk. “And specifically I'm speaking of the Cardinal's mistress.” He glowered at Porthos. 

“I don't know where he is, sir. So far as I know he didn't return to his private lodgings yesterday. When we parted he was on his way to the staff quarters, he said he feared he'd caught pneumonia and wanted to go to bed and take some of his mother's herbs.” Porthos shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He was determined to get Aramis off the hook as good as was within his power. Of late, Aramis' amorous adventures had aroused Tréville's anger, especially since the captain had heard rumours that Aramis was bedding Richelieu's favourite mistress.

“Go and check if he's here. If so, I want to see him dressed and ready in this office within the next two minutes. If he's not here, report back immediately.” Tréville dismissed Porthos by wagging his hand as if chasing away an annoying fly, his attention already back on his paperwork.

Porthos left and made his way to the soldiers’ quarters. Some distance away from Aramis' allocated room he could already hear hard coughing. Relieved that Aramis was really within the garrison and not basking in a woman's bed somewhere, Porthos covered the remaining distance and opened the door without waiting for an answer to his quick knock. “Aramis?” he called into the twilit room. “Are you awake?” Porthos waited until his eyes had adjusted to the dim light and approached the bed.

Aramis lay under a heap of blankets, only his dark hair visible. The coughing continued as Porthos pulled back the blankets to get a better look at his friend. The marksman was bathed in sweat, his white shirt clinging damply to skin that looked feverish and pale, dotted with redness. What horrified Porthos most, however, were the spots of blood that stained the linen.

“Aramis, can you hear me?” Porthos tried again, lightly touching his friend's shoulder. “It's me, Porthos.”

Slowly, Aramis opened his eyes, trying to focus on the person standing beside his bed. “Porthos?” Groaning, he unfurled and shifted his position so that he was able to face Porthos. “I'm sick.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Are you coughing blood? That looks pretty serious to me.”

Aramis looked surprised. “Blood?” He looked around, taking in the blood stains in his bed. His eyes returned to Porthos, confusion and fear visible in the dark eyes. “I’ve never coughed blood before.” His words were interrupted by another heavy fit of coughing.

Porthos grabbed the towel from the water bowl beside the bed, handing it to Aramis. Soon, the first specks of blood appeared on it. “I'll be back in a moment,” Porthos said when the coughing wouldn't stop, and left the room.

Two minutes later he returned with Tréville in tow.

Aramis had stopped coughing but had now broken into shivers, looking apologetically towards the entering men. “Captain,” he greeted his commanding officer, though he had problems getting the word out between his clattering teeth. “I f- f- fear I m- must report sick.”

Tréville almost rolled his eyes. “Yes, that I can see, Aramis. You're seriously ill.” Wordlessly, he regarded Aramis for a while.

Aramis' shivering continued, even though he tried to suppress it under his captain's scrutiny. Another coughing fit left him almost without breath and for a tiny moment he feared he would choke. When the fit was over, he sucked in air like a drowning man.

“Porthos,” Tréville said in a low voice. “Send Hubert to the palace to fetch Dr Lemay. Tell him to hurry.”

Porthos glanced sideways at the captain. “Dr Lemay? Shouldn't we call Dr Nougaret?” He had seen Monsiuer Nougaret only yesterday when the doctor had looked after an infected cut the stable boy had sustained a few days ago. He couldn't see a reason why the old doctor shouldn't be available at the moment. And he had never heard of a Dr Lemay.

“Do as I say. Dr Lemay was appointed as one of the King's new personal physicians a few days ago. He's just returned from the Université de Genève. If anyone can help, it's him,” he muttered.

Porthos stared at Tréville bluntly. “What? What do you mean by that?”

Tréville took a deep breath and finally looked away from Aramis, turning his gaze on Porthos. “I'm no expert, but this is not a normal inflammation of the lungs. I hope I'm wrong, but to me it looks like splenic fever. Go now.”

After a shocked moment, Porthos turned on his heels and left the room.

Tréville's gaze returned to Aramis who had heard the words and stared at his captain with wide, feverish eyes. He hoped he was wrong, but if Dr Lemay confirmed his suspicion and Aramis really had splenic fever, it was highly contagious and always fatal. He needed to take precautions to protect the garrison from the disease.

Tréville, deep in thoughts, was still standing on the same spot when Porthos returned a few minutes later with Athos behind him.

“Aramis,” Athos said, stepping up to the bed. The single word held question and reproach and empathy, all at the same time. “What are you doing?”

“I'm sure it's just pneumonia,” Aramis rasped, looking pleadingly at Athos. Whenever he had been in trouble in recent years, not matter what it was, he had always been able to rely on their undisputed leader to get him out of the mess. It was obvious that Aramis was certain Athos would do so now, too. 

Athos turned to Tréville. “What makes you think he has splenic fever? He’s been with Porthos and d'Artagnan for the last few days, apart from his mission to Blois, and neither Porthos nor the Gascon show signs of sickness. He was drenched when he returned yesterday, it's just a severe flu with incipient pneumonia.” 

“I didn't say it was splenic fever, I'm no doctor, that's why I sent for Dr Lemay. But this doesn't look like a normal bad attack of pneumonia, either. His condition has deteriorated too quickly for an inflammation of the lungs. And I've seen people sick with pulmonary splenic fever before.” Tréville paused. “There was an outbreak in Gascony twenty years ago. It was horrible.”

Porthos had grabbed a spare towel from the hook beside the door and handed it to Aramis, his left hand already reaching for the bloodstained towel Aramis held clenched in his hands.

“Porthos, no!” Tréville shouted.

Porthos jerked, his hands frozen in mid-air. “What?” he stuttered.

“Aramis may be highly contagious, don't touch any of the phlegm or blood-smeared cloths. It would be best if you refrained from touching him at all. At least until we know more.”

Porthos glowered at his captain.

Before the big man could bark a snide remark, Aramis spoke, or at least he tried. “He's right, stay away from me,” he croaked. “I don't want to infect any of you. Please,” he added, when he saw the thunderous look on his friends' face.

Porthos shook his head grimly, but he obeyed and left the dirty cloth in Aramis' hands. “This is ridiculous,” he said to the room at large, then walked past Athos to the door, grumbling something inaudible.

Athos and Tréville shared a long look, and the silent exchange tugged at Athos' heartstrings. He had to avert his gaze and walked to the table to fill a glass of water for Aramis.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fifteen minutes later, Dr Lemay arrived. He was accompanied by Hubert who retreated after Tréville dismissed him with a nod. 

“Monsieur Tréville, how can I be of service? I presume this is the patient?” He glanced at Aramis.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, doctor. This Musketeer arrived back from a short mission yesterday, his condition deteriorated badly overnight. Aramis thinks it's just pneumonia but I would like to hear your opinion. I'd like to be sure that we can exclude splenic fever.”

Lemay, who had let his eyes roam over the patient, sharply looked at Tréville. “What makes you think it's splenic fever, sir?”

Tréville looked at Aramis. “I'm not sure, but I've seen this kind of condition before. He wouldn't be coughing blood already if it was a simple lung inflammation. Not after he hardly coughed yesterday when he came back from the mission. He has, by the look of it, ague and high fever, breathing problems and wet, haemorrhagic coughing. All showing up within less than twelve hours.” He looked up and turned his eyes to Dr Lemay. “But I'm no doctor, that's why I want to hear your diagnosis.”

“I see. Very well, I would ask you to please wait outside until I've finished examining the patient.” Dr Lemay made a vague gesture that could be read as request to follow his plea. When no man made a move to oblige, he looked at Tréville.

Tréville harrumphed. “Out everyone,” he said, and waited until Athos and Porthos had left the room. With a last glance towards Ararmis, he closed the door behind him. “Fetch me the moment Dr Lemay opens this door,” he ordered and returned to his office.

Athos, who had replied to his captain's order with a simple nod, watched him go.

Porthos started pacing the floor in front of Aramis' quarters. “How long do you think it takes this Doctor Lemay to examine Aramis? Do you think Tréville is right? Where would Aramis have caught this fever anyway? He was in the saddle from morning till dawn and I'm sure this Gaston bastard is too posh to allow a disease such as splenic fever to come anywhere near him or his properties. Aramis would--”

“Porthos,” Athos interrupted the stream of words in a low voice. “Just wait to hear what the doctor has to say. I'm sure it won't take long until he has finished his examination.” Contrary to what he had just said, he hoped it would take a very long time until Dr Lemay opened the door again. He had only once before seen a man infected with splenic fever, but he tended to share their captain's opinion. Nevertheless, he hoped they were wrong. He couldn't get the sight of Aramis looking at him out of his mind. Below in the courtyard Athos could see d'Artagnan wielding his sword, fighting an imaginary opponent. He had abandoned the young man when Porthos had urged Athos to follow him and hadn't spared a thought for the Gascon until now. Athos leaned over the wooden railing. “D'Artagnan, go and help Jacques in the stables. I'll let you know when I've another task for you.”

The young man stopped in his tracks the moment Athos started shouting and looked up. “All right,” he replied eagerly, but there was a hint of hurt in his bright eyes. He sheathed his sword and trotted towards the stable.

Athos sighed and turned to face Porthos. “With his sword and main gauche, he's better than I thought, but he's too eager to fight. Rash and impatient. And a little boastful. He needs to be put in his place.”

“Don't be so hard on him, he's a good boy,” Porthos answered absent-mindedly, his eyes staring into the distance. His mind was occupied elsewhere.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lemay opened the door, ready to speak, but closed his mouth again when he found only Athos and Porthos in front of the door. “Where's Captain Tréville?” the doctor asked. 

“I'll fetch him,” Athos said and made his way to the captain's office.

Porthos slipped by Lemay and entered the room. “How are you?” he asked his friend who lay on the bed, white as a sheet.

Instead of answering, Aramis closed his eyes. Porthos didn't know whether Aramis hadn't heard him or choose not to answer, but it was a bad sign nonetheless. Fear gripped the big man's heart. He turned to Dr Lemay who stepped into the room again, drying his hands with a towel.

“What's wrong with him?”

Dr Lemay avoided the big man's gaze and busied himself with the few instruments and phials he had spread on the small table. He started packing them away again. “I think we should wait until Captain Tréville is here before I give my report.”

“Aramis?” Porthos tried again to get a reaction from his friend.

“He's probably not hearing you. I dosed him with a cough suppressant and something to get the fever down. As a side effect, it tends to make the patient sleepy.”

There was movement outside Aramis' room and a moment later Tréville and Athos entered.

“Doctor?” the captain asked, looking back and forth between Aramis and Lemay.

“I fear you are right in your assessment. From the symptoms he shows and what you said about the rapid deterioration of his health I think he's infected with pulmonary splenic fever. He fulfils every indication for this disease, and the way he presents is in its entirety typical for it. The one point we would still have to check is how he could get infected with it. If his horse shows no sign of the disease, he must have been in contact with contaminated livestock somewhere within the last days. If the infection started to show yesterday evening, he must have had contact with affected animals a few days ago. It is believed that pulmonary splenic fever has an incubation time of one to six days. Sometimes even less if the concentration was very high, but that's not likely with his current temperature. He told me he had felt a little unwell since the day before yesterday, which means that tonight he has already passed into the acute phase.” Lemay stopped speaking and started fiddling with the few phials he had left on the table, avoiding Tréville's gaze.

When it was obvious that the doctor wouldn't continue, Tréville asked, “And what are you going to do now? How will you treat him?”

Aramis, who had lain on his bed, apparently asleep, groaned and started coughing.

Porthos, who still stood beside the bed, bent down to aide his friend.

“Don't touch the phlegm, it's supposed to be highly contagious!” Dr Lemay ordered. “There's still no consensus about how pulmonary splenic fever is passed on. Some believe it's not only passed on by inhalation of the spores but also by contact with the sputum. You should in any case be extremely cautions and never touch whatever he's coughing up. Burn the affected cloths and linens, everything that gets in contact with it.”

Porthos had helped Aramis to turn sideways and supported his body until the coughing fit was over. He made sure to avoid contact with the cloth in Aramis' hands.

Aramis opened his eyes and glanced at Porthos beside him. “Thanks,” he rasped. “Can you get me a cup of water?”

Porthos grabbed the cup he had put down on the nightstand earlier and handed it to Aramis.

“You haven't answered my question, Lemay. How are you going to treat him? And how can we avoid the disease spreading in the garrison?”

Lemay, who had watched Aramis sip a mouthful of water, turned and looked at Tréville. “I will give him a mild opiate against the pain and he can take a cough suppressant every couple of hours to ease the coughing. Once the fever rises I will increase the dose of opiate and cold compresses might bring some relief.”

“Will the opiate bring the fever down?” Athos asked, though he was sure he knew enough of opiates to already know the answer.

“No. It will just make it easier for him until... errm. Well, there's nothing else I can do.”

Porthos looked up sharply. “What's that supposed to mean? Nothing else to do? Will you just leave him in this state until the fever has burned itself out? He's coughing blood, do you not intent to do anything against that?”

Lemay stared at Porthos, apparently struggling for words. He wrung his hands and everyone could see how uncomfortable the doctor felt.

“I think what Dr Lemay is trying to tell us is that there's nothing he can do,” Tréville said softly. “Isn't that right?”

Glad, someone else had pointed out the inevitable, Lemay nodded. “Yes. I'm really sorry. There's no cure for this disease. If it's any comfort to you, it will be over quickly. Usually, once the acute phase of the illness has set in, the patient will succumb to it within two or three days. Sometimes less.”

“But there must be something you can do! You are a doctor!” Porthos rose from the bed, taking a step towards the medical man.

“I understand you just returned from the medical school in Geneva. From what I've heard it's famous for its progressive method of teaching. Surely you learned something about the treatment of splenic fever there?” Tréville added.

“Gentlemen,” Lemay said, but was interrupted.

Another coughing fit shook Aramis and Porthos returned to help his friend. When the coughing had stopped, Porthos shook up the pillow and stuffed Aramis' cloak which had lain beside the bed, under the pillow, too. That way Aramis' head and upper body were settled a little higher and breathing would be easier for him.

Lemay had started to add drops of a clear liquid from a small phial to a lager phial which he now handed Porthos. “Add a spoonful of this to a cup of water or wine and let him drink a few sips every half hour. It will ease the coughing.”

Porthos nodded, pouring some of the medicine into a cup. Then he handed it to Aramis to let him drink.

“If you have no knowledge of how to heal this disease, then give us a name we can turn to for help. I'm sure there'll be doctors who are more versed in this kind of healing.” Athos, shocked from what Lemay had told them, had finally been aroused from his stupor. His words were meant to hurt.

“I'll fetch Doctor Nougaret. He's been treating all the injuries and maladies this garrison has ever seen for years. He'll know what to do.”

Tréville looked sceptical but didn't stop Porthos. Maybe the old doctor really would know a cure for pulmonary splenic fever, though Tréville was sure Lemay would know if there was one. He himself had seen a few outbreaks, among livestock as well as people. While there had been effective treatment if just the skin had been affected, infection of the lungs had always been fatal.

“I didn't say I didn’t know of a treatment for this kind of splenic fever, I just said that I have no other way to treat him than to ease the symptoms,” Lemay said, either in response to Porthos' statement or Athos' reproachful words, or both.

Porthos stopped in the doorway, turning around. “What?” His face looked like a thundercloud.

“Why can't you treat him,” Tréville replied sharply. “What hinders you?”

“Apart from the fact that I've never done the treatment myself, but only heard of it, I have not got the necessary medicine. You'll not find what you need for it in France.”

The doctor's statement hung in the air, weighting heavily on the men in the room.

“I don't believe this. You can get anything in France, you just need the right contacts and the right amount of gold coins,” Athos said.

“What is this treatment and what do you need?” Tréville demanded. “I'll ask the King to open his private apothecary for you.” Tréville had never asked for a private privilege his position would allow him, had never made use of the trust the king met him with, but if it saved the life of one of his Musketeers, he was willing even to grovel and beg.

“There's a treatment Spanish doctors reported of, they apply this remedy with great success, the mortality rate for infestations of the lungs with _Bacillus anthracis_ has drastically dropped. Seven out of ten patients survive if they are treated with the remedy as soon as the first signs of infection shows. I've also heard of Italian doctors using the treatment with similar success. The problem is that the concoction is made of Peruvian bark and propolis. Peruvian bark is not available in France.”

“Why not?” Tréville wanted to know.

“It comes from the Spanish Colonies. Spanish missionaries brought it back from the Viceroyalty of New Castilles, they learned of the healing effect of the bark from the native people. It's also called Jesuit's bark, because Jesuits found out that it's not only a remedy for malaria, which is the main use of it in New Spain, but, in combination with propolis and _argentum colloidale_ , it can cure splenic fever and the white plague, if it's administered within the first couple of days.”

“And none of these ingredients are available in France?” Tréville asked.

“Not at all. I have plenty of _argentum colloidale_ , and there's a peasant outside of Paris I can purchase bee glue from, though he may be a bit short of it at this time of the year. That's not the problem. But I've never heard of Peruvian bark being put up for sale in France.”

“But you have contact to other doctors, Spanish, Swiss. Is there not the chance to acquire some of it from one of them?”

“Well,” Lemay pondered, swaying his head from side to side. “It would be an option, though the bark is very expensive, even a small piece of it would cost a fortune. I have a Spanish colleague I constantly correspond with, he's in the service of His Most Catholic Majesty in Madrid, he might be able to send me some.” Lemay stopped.

The men looked at each other and comprehension dawned on the Musketeers' faces. “It would take too long even for a courier to get to Madrid and back in time,” Porthos stated the obvious.

“Yes,” the doctor replied plainly.

“Captain,” said Aramis, who had listened with closed eyes to the conversation. “You must make sure that this doesn't spread further. Best you segregate my mare from the rest to see if she shows any signs of illness.” The medicine Lemay had given him seemed to help, he could speak without being interrupted by coughing, but his voice was rasping and he was short of breath after a few words. “I think I know where I might have caught it. I left through the _porte Sainte-Geneviève_ and not far from it on the road to the convent Sainte-Geneviève I came across a peasant whose cart had stuck on the road, a wheel broken. The cart was loaded with slaughtered cattle, or at least that's what I thought. If the beasts had been infected, it's most likely I caught it there, I was in close contact with them. I helped the man to get the cart off the road so it wouldn't block it until he had managed to have the wheel repaired.” Aramis paused to take a couple of shallow breaths. “In hindsight, the cattle didn't look healthy, the fact aside that they were already dead, naturally.”

“I'll send someone to check it. If there had been an outbreak, people will know. Let's hope it hasn't spread by now. At least the peasant would show symptoms as well, if that incident was the cause. I'll also send someone to Gaston's residence, you said you spent a day and night there.”

“No one showed signs of sickness there, but to be on the safe side, you might check it as well. Though my bet is on the cart with the cattle.” Aramis replied. “I think it would be a good idea nevertheless to send a courier to Madrid and ask if Dr Lemay can purchase some of this Jesuit's bark. If there'll be an outbreak, it would be good to have this magic cure at disposal. I'm even sure Louis will pay for it if Dr Lemay acquires it for the royal apothecary and tells him that His Most Catholic Majesty is bragging over the possession of it.”

“I think you're right, it would be worth a try,” Dr Lemay answered, obviously slightly embarrassed about the way the Musketeer spoke about his sovereign.

“But it won't help you,” Porthos pointed out unnecessarily.

Aramis regarded Porthos with an unreadable look. He knew what the diagnosis Dr Lemay had disclosed meant for him, and he had accepted it. No escape from death. On his way back from Blois he had already felt that there was something wrong with the cold he had thought he’d caught. He only wished, for the sake of Porthos, the doctor could find some words of hope. “You underestimate my stubbornness, _mon ami._ ”

Porthos rolled his eyes and turned to Tréville. Maybe the captain would see reason and not accept Aramis' fate so easily.

The midday bell from Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois heralded the hour of the day, and Tréville rubbed a hand over his face. “I need to start taking precautions. Athos, Porthos, follow me to my office. Dr Lemay,” he said, turning to the doctor, “I need to talk with you, too. Can you spare a few minutes before you go back to the Louvre?”

“Yes, of course. I'll just need a moment to pack my things and instruct the patient....,” regarding Aramis, Lemay broke off and turned to Porthos. “Or maybe I can tell you what you need to observe and how to dose the medicine.”

Porthos nodded grim-faced and stepped to Lemay.

“Come when you're ready,” Tréville said and left the room with Athos in tow.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tréville slumped down on his chair behind the desk, gesturing to Athos to do the same and seat himself somewhere. “I'd always thought that the divine grace shone a little brighter on Aramis than on the rest of us. I think somehow I presumed God would hold His protecting hand over Aramis _in aeternum._ ” He sighed. “God knows how often he's escaped death like a cat with nine lives. To think of that he should now die in bed, defeated by such a cursed disease when he has sustained so many wounds on the battlefields of France.” 

“It is what it is,” Athos answered tonelessly. “You know my mind in this matter. God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by powerful people who abnegate all responsibility, instrumental only to oppress ordinary people.”

“Careful. That's heresy.”

Athos glanced at his captain with an expression stating that he couldn't care less about it. “However,” Athos drawled, “I have to admit that living in Aramis' orbit tends to dilute this ideology. One is not immune to it, not even I,” he muttered.

Tréville nodded.

“I would go to mass on Sunday and spend an hour on my knees praying if you could promise me here and now that my prayers would help him,” Athos said quietly, looking up at the captain. “But you and I know it won't, so much for that.”

Tréville sighed. “I want you to ride to the _porte Sainte-Geneviève_. Try to locate this peasant and find out if he has or had infected cattle. Look for any signs of the disease in the hamlets there. Do also check the convent, as far as I know they have farmland and livestock.”

Athos nodded and rose.

“Take d'Artagnan with you.”

Athos, who had been in the process of putting on his hat, let the hand holding the headgear sink again. “What?”

“You heard me. Take d'Artagnan with you. That's an order. Dismissed.”

“Maybe there _is_ a God after all. One who's punishing me for every sin I ever did,” Athos muttered and left the room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Before Dr Lemay could make his way to the captain's office, a Musketeer on duty at the palace arrived and ordered the doctor back to the Louvre. Louis felt unwell and demanded the attendance of his royal physician immediately. Lemay hurried to oblige. He told Porthos he would be back in the afternoon to speak with the captain. 

Porthos reported to Tréville about the instructions Lemay had left and requested his commanding officer to be dispensed from duty for the day so he could look after Aramis. The doctor had explicitly warned to restrict contact with the patient. 

Tréville agreed. “Stay with him for the day, but be careful. Heed Lemay's advice. I'll send Bastien to fetch Dr. Nougaret. Even though I completely trust Dr Lemay’s diagnosis, maybe the old doctor has a trick up his sleeve. I'm inclined to leave no remedy untried.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As chance would have it, the men all gathered in Aramis room again in the afternoon.

Tréville came to see how Aramis was doing and had to realise that the marksman's condition had worsened further. There was no doubt any more what it was Aramis was suffering from.

Porthos kept a fire going in the small room. For one thing to keep the room warm and as comfortably as possible for Aramis, for another thing to burn the cloths Aramis used when one coughing fit after the other shook him. Porthos had just given Aramis one of Lemay's concoctions when Tréville had entered and Aramis lay in his bed now, weakened from the fever and the continued coughing, a sheen of sweat covering his skin. Nevertheless, he had still the energy to greet his captain with a weak smile.

“Dr. Nouraget is out of town, the landlady didn't know when he'll be back,” Tréville said, keeping any emotion from his voice. Before he could continue, there was a knock on the door.

Athos entered with d'Artagnan in tow. “Ah, there you are. When I didn't find you at the office, I thought you might be here,” he said to Tréville.

D'Artagnan squeezed by the older man and approached the fire to warm his frozen hands. Water started dripping from his hair when the snowflakes that had gathered there began to melt. He darted a few, pitiful glances in Aramis' direction. All in all, he created the impression of trying to melt with the shadows and maintain a low profile.

“Aramis was right. We found the peasant with the broken cart wheel. He admitted that an ox, two cows and a calf had died from a disease the other day. He had been afraid of infecting the few remaining livestock and decided to burn them far away from the hamlet. Naturally, he has not informed any authorities out of fear they would command the slaughter of the remaining animals. We've spoken with almost every peasant in the hamlet and the farmland surrounding the convent. So far, no other livestock seems to be affected, but I'm no expert. I was also under the impression that two of his six children looked ill, but this could be due to different circumstances just as easily. The man himself didn't show any of the symptoms Aramis has. In any case, you should report this and have the livestock and the people there checked if you want to avoid more illness.”

Tréville nodded and sighed. “I'll see to it immediately. I hope both of you have avoided any contact with beasts and people there.”

Athos darted his captain a reproachful stare and refrained from answering.

Another knock at the door attracted every men's attention.

Dr Lemay entered. “Captain, _messieurs_ ,” he greeted. “I was on my way to your office but wanted to check on the patient again. I need to be back at the palace without delay, so I don't have much time. You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes, I wanted to know about precautionary measures, but now it seems I'll have to go to the Louvre myself. We have to keep the disease at bay before it can spread. Maybe we can discuss things on the way there, I'll accompany you once you're finished here.”

“Very well. I won't be long,” Lemay answered and tried to reach the bed without stepping on one of the many Musketeers' boots standing in the way. The room was more than crowded with all the people. “Oh,” Lemay said suddenly, just as Tréville made to leave the room, “there was something else I wanted to tell you. I didn't think of it this morning and it only occurred to me on my way back. There might be a chance to get hold of Peruvian bark in France, though I don't know for sure. And it would certainly cost a fortune, if you could find someone who'd be willing to sell it.”

A deafening quiet settled in the room, disturbed only by the crackling fire.

It took a second before Lemay realised that all eyes were glued on him. Even Aramis had his eyes open, staring at the doctor.

“What's that?” Porthos asked.

Lemay started fumbling with his shirt collar. “Erm, it's just an idea and it would probably take too long anyway, especially in this weather and I don't know if it would be crowned with success.” The doctor floundered, looking to and fro between the Musketeers. “There are frequently Spanish ships calling in at ports in France, right? English ships, too. Some of them may have Peruvian bark on board, if they are on their way back from the New Colonies. I don't know if any of them would be willing or allowed to sell it in France, it's just an idea. I know of a merchant in the rue Tournelles who purchases sugar cane from Spanish ships in Brest, which is not allowed to be offered in French harbours from Spanish ships. It's--”

“I'll go,” Porthos interrupted the doctor. “I'll leave instantly. Do we know if there are any Spanish ships in French harbours at the moment?” He looked at Tréville expectantly.

The captain exhaled slowly, not the least bit convinced this undertaking would work in time and yet well aware that Porthos would not deviate from what his mind was set on. Before he could answer, someone else spoke.

“There are Spanish ships docked in Marseille, Honfleur and Brest at the moment. Furthermore, one ship is due tomorrow in Le Havre, and another one the day after tomorrow, both straight from the Viceroyalty of Castille, if the information the harbour master has is right. As far as I know, the ship that's currently docked in Honfleur is due to leave for England today,” d'Artagnan said. “Or tomorrow,” he added uncertainly, when no man made a move to reply something.

Bluntly, the Musketeers stared at their youngest, momentarily astonished about the information the Gascon could deliver.

Lemay, unaware of the men's background and relation to each other and therefore not suspicious of d'Artagnan delivering such information, said, “Ah, well, that's answered then.”

“Where did you get this information from?” Athos rasped. He had spent more or less the whole day with the boy and wondered if d'Artagnan just made up this information to impress or if he was some kind of Gascon clairvoyant, and they just hadn't realised it yet. There was no chance d'Artagnan could have acquired such information when he was on the road with Athos.

“I accompanied Madame Bonacieux to the harbour master's office yesterday. Her husband is desperately waiting for a delivery he ordered on behalf of the _duc de Chevreuse_ with fine English wool, and Madame Boncacieux had to make inquiries on his behalf about the whereabouts of the ship. Const-- erm, Madame Bonacieux noted the arrival and departure of every ship in French harbours this week in case Monsieur Bonacieux was also waiting for another cargo and needed to know the presumed arrival date.” D'Artagnan had to suppress a grin, for it had been his idea to get all the dates and thereby put one over on Monsieur Bonacieux. The way Constance's husband treated her like a maid rather than his wedded wife was d'Artagnan's bête noire.

Porthos nodded grimly. “Le Havre then. If I leave now, I can be there tomorrow for when the ship arrives.”

“There's no way you can cover the distance from Paris to Le Havre in one day, not in this weather. Even not under better weather conditions,” Athos replied. “And you know it.”

“Athos is right. You'll need at least two days, likely more,” Tréville added. "And then there's still the way back."

“You all heard what Dr Lemay said. If there's Peruvian bark to be sold on this ship, I'll be back with it within two days. Will the King pay for it, captain?”

Tréville sighed. It would probably be a hard fight, trying to wrench money from the royal coffers for this matter, if Louis was willing to listen to him at all. The King had been in a bad mood all week. And it would take time to convince him, time they didn't have, even if he followed Aramis' suggestion of baiting Louis with King Philip. And then the undertaking was still against Spanish law. Maybe he should swallow the bitter pill and ask Richelieu. The cardinal's coffers were full, much fuller than Louis'. Tréville was even willing to owe the cardinal a favour for this.

“There's no need,” Athos said, interrupting Tréville's stream of thoughts. “I'll provide you with the money you'll need, which is likely more than Louis would ever be willing to grant the Musketeers. Give me half an hour to be back.”

Porthos nodded. “Aye.”

After a short glance in Aramis' direction, Athos turned and left the room.

“I guess that's settled then.” Tréville squinted at Porthos. “I have to speak with you. I'm in my office.” Turning to Lemay, he added, “We need to discuss this before I go to see the King. I'll wait for you in the office.” Then he left without further comment.

Porthos raised his chin in a gesture of stubborn determination, looking at d'Artagnan.

“I'll saddle your horse while you see Tréville and grab what you need for the travel,” the young man said. To Aramis, who lay in his bed with his eyes closed again and a sheen of sweat covering his skin, seemingly not following the conversation anymore, he said, “I'll be back later.” Then he turned and left the room, too.

Porthos looked at Lemay, then he stepped up to the bed and knelt down to come on a level with Aramis. He put his hand on the marksman's damp brow, causing the sick man to open his eyes. “Promise me you'll hold on until I'm back. There's no reason to succumb to this, I'll bring back what Dr Lemay needs to cure this cursed ailment. Just promise me to hang on long enough.”

Aramis grinned, which looked odd on the pale, sweat-covered face. “I'm not intending to go anywhere. I'll be right here upon your return, if only to rub your nose in the fact that you needed more than two days for your return.” He swallowed. “Notwithstanding that, make haste.”

“I will, _mon ami._ ” Porthos rose.

“Godspeed, my friend.” Aramis grabbed Porthos' hand and squeezed it. “The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you. Safe travel.” A coughing fit cut him off.

Porthos regarded his friend for a moment. It had felt like Aramis was saying good-bye, and not for the short journey Porthos was about to start. Deliberately, Porthos choose to ignore that and shook off the bad feeling. 

While Dr. Lemay was occupied with Aramis, Porthos slipped silently out of the room and hurried to his own quarters to pack a spare shirt and his weapons.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but you know as well as me that you don't have a chance of being back within two days,” said Tréville. 

“Are you ordering me to stay?” Porthos growled and added, without hesitation, “If so, I'm resigning my commission here and now.” Porthos' left hand reached for the leather straps of his pauldron.

“No. If this is what you want to do you're exempt from duty for the next few days. I just wanted to point out again that this is likely not going to help Aramis.” Tréville rounded his desk and came face to face with Porthos. “You must be aware that you may not make this trip in time and that this might be the last time you see Aramis alive. Choose wisely if you don't want to spend his last days at his side rather than going away. I can send someone else to Le Havre.”

“I said I'll be back in time and I'm not planning to break that promise. I'll find that damn Peruvian bark and bring it here and Aramis will live.”

Tréville sighed. He had tried, but this wasn't his decision. He grabbed a scroll of paper from his desk. Handing it to Porthos, he said, “I hope this will be helpful, I leave it to you how to make use of it. If nothing else, it shall at least provide you with fresh horses.”

Porthos took the paper, squinting at it. It bore the royal seal. Surprised, he looked at his captain. “Thank you.”

Tréville nodded and gave the big man's shoulder an encouraging pat. “Godspeed.” Absent-mindedly, he stared at the door long after Porthos had left the room. Eventually, shaking himself from his stupor, he returned to his desk to wait for Lemay.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Porthos set off after Athos had returned with two bulging leather sacks. According to Athos, the bigger one contained enough gold coins to buy a shipload of Jesuit's bark. 

“This,” Athos said in a low voice, handing Porthos the second, slightly smaller pouch, “is some extra coin. Use it for whatever you deem necessary. Horses, weapons, bribes. Ransom.”

Porthos met Athos' gaze, holding it for a moment, and nodded. He understood. He pulled Athos into a hug, not giving a damn about the other's aversion of displaying such brotherly feelings. “Look after him for me,” he muttered.

Athos, not the least bit fond of being crushed in a bear hug, or any hug at all, for once hugged back without hesitation. “I will. Just hurry.”

D'Artagnan handed Porthos the reins and watched him mount, wishing him luck for his journey.

With a last glance to the two men remaining behind in the courtyard, Porthos spurred his horse and cantered through the archway. The cold winter sun was just setting behind the steeple of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, bathing the garrison in twilight, and the north wind whirled fresh snowflakes through the yard.

D'Artagnan and Athos looked after their comrade with mixed feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers are property of Alexandre Dumas and BBC One. I only borrowed the characters and the concept of the show for this work of fan fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Father Grandier, who makes an appearance in this chapter, is an OC introduced by **M_LadyinWaiting** in her story _A Good Son_. She was so kind and allowed me to borrow him for this story. Thank you, my friend! If you haven't read her stories by now, go and read them!
> 
> Also, chapter count changed from two to three.. ;-)

The first day after Porthos' departure was filled with the usual tasks the King's Musketeers were bound to fulfil. Missions had to be accomplished, the royal family's security had to be ensured by the palace guard, and the Red Guard had to be kept in check, although that was not one of their official duties. The garrison buzzed like it did on any other day, unheeding of the fact that one of their number lay on his deathbed. 

Newly added to their tasks were, by royal decree, the preparation for a possible outbreak of splenic fever in the hamlets outside of Paris and the prevention of a spread of the disease in Paris. Against Tréville's repeated, highly recommended advice, the king had ordered the slaughter of every animal, sick or not, within the radius of one league from the hamlet where the infected beasts had first been located. Not even Richelieu had been able to convince the king to use less drastic measures. It would rob many families of their only source of income, leaving them exposed to hunger and starvation. Tréville dreaded the task his men had to supervise, even had to carry through by force, if need be. Nevertheless, he was well aware that an outbreak had to be prevented at all costs.

Athos, who had spent the night in Aramis' quarters, helping the marksman through the night, spent all day in the saddle with d'Artagnan, Raoul and Arnaud at his side. They had been delegated to make sure the royal decree was obeyed in the convent of Sainte-Geneviève as well as three nearby settlements. The decree also included the search for sick peasants, and to segregate these people at the smallest sign of sickness by taking them to the convent's infirmary. Louis had ordered all sick persons to be gathered outside the city walls. While Athos had watched the mustering and slaughtering of the animals, the peasants' begging and crying and then the nuns' anger and withering glances with his ever stoic mien, he had been well aware of the Gascon's uneasiness having to watch so many healthy beasts, often as close to the peasants as family members, being killed. Athos said nothing, not until they had returned to the garrison after dark.

“The life of a Musketeer is rarely filled with glory and honour, d'Artagnan,” he said when they dismounted in the courtyard. “Most of the time you'll spend doing tasks you don't like, you don't consent to or you don't understand. And you will fulfil them without batting an eye. That's the Musketeer's life. If you can't live with this, you’d better return to your farm now. Think about it thoroughly.” Then he left the young man and made his way to Aramis' quarter to take over from Serge who had offered to look after Aramis while the Musketeers had been away.

D'Artagnan stood in the courtyard, staring after the retreating form of Athos. A lot of thoughts whirled through his mind. Finally, he clicked his tongue and led his horse to the stable.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The second day after Porthos' departure began much like the day before, except that Tréville had to leave for a meeting at the Louvre very early in the morning, leaving Athos as his second-in-command the duty of assigning tasks and taking Tréville's place in the garrison as long as he was away. When he came to Aramis' room to inform Athos of the day's schedule, Tréville noted that Aramis' health condition hadn't improved, but it looked like it hadn't deteriorated drastically either. He took it as a good sign. 

Athos, who showed no sign of sleep deprivation, despite not having slept much for the second night in a row, made sure Aramis had everything he needed before heading to the balcony outside Tréville's office. He had increased the dose of opiate overnight, and also shortened the interval of the administration of the cough suppressant. The bubbling sound of Aramis' lungs had reminded him of the noise the bellows made in Remy's forge back in Pinon. Athos didn't know if it came from more blood now gathering in the marksman's lungs or something else, but he knew Aramis was running out of time. At least, his friend spent most of his time dozing, sedated by the medicine and without pain. That was all Athos could do for him.

Athos was quick to read out the duty roster and send every Musketeer on his way. He ordered d'Artagnan to ride again with Arnaud and Raoul, deliberately ignoring the boy's haunted look. Back in the captain's office, he busied himself with a stack of papers Tréville had asked him to look through.

Tréville returned an hour before the midday bell, looking utterly exhausted and glum. He listened to Athos' report without comment, dismissing his second-in-command afterwards without new orders.

Whether Tréville had forgotten to assign him something, or had simply released him from duty for the day, Athos didn't know nor did he care. He felt worn out and would be glad if he could just sit by Aramis’ bed for a while. He made a detour to the mess to grab something to eat. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember when he’d last seen Aramis eat something. So he went back to the kitchen to ask if he could have some broth.

When Athos entered the marksman's room, he was surprised to find d'Artagnan beside Aramis' bed, talking animatedly.

The Gascon's talking, however, stopped as soon as he spotted Athos in the door frame. Sheepishly he looked at the older man.

“D'Artagnan, you're back already.” It was more a statement than a question, and Athos didn't expect an answer. He closed the door with a kick of his heel and crossed the room in two quick strides. Setting the bowl down on Aramis' bed stand, he asked, “How are you?”

“Hungry,” Aramis replied in a thin voice, smiling at Athos.

Athos smiled back, warmly, for the first time in a long while. “Then it's good I've brought you soup. Here, let me help you sit up a bit.”

“D'Artagnan entertained me with stories from his farm life. Did you know he can ride a boar?”

Athos perked a brow, looking warily at Aramis.

“It wasn't a boar and I didn't exactly ride it. It was rather a piglet and I was very small, like three or four years old, and simply....” D'Artagnan trailed off when he saw the look of mischief on Aramis' pale, disease-ravaged face. He sighed. He had still a long way to go if he wanted to be part of what some of the men in the garrison referred to as _les Inseparables_. Right now, d'Artagnan doubted he would ever be a part of the Musketeers, and much less part of these three men's close unit. Deliberately he shoved aside the thought that the Inseparables might in the near future only be two instead of three.

“So, you're already back. Are you finished for the day or has Arnaud sent you back?” Athos asked in an undertone of sarcasm, handing Aramis bowl and spoon.

“We oversaw the rest of it and are finished and Arnaud said he had no other task for me at the moment. If I wished I could go and see Aramis.” There was a hint of anger in the young man's voice, but Athos ignored it.

Aramis spooned his soup, slowly and arduously, closely watched by both men until he was finished.

Athos had ensconced himself in the chair beside Aramis' bed d'Artagnan had abandoned earlier, and once Aramis had taken his medicine and seemed to doze again, Athos permitted himself to close his eyes as well. His thoughts wandered off to Porthos, once again calculating the distance the big man had probably covered by now, and once more coming to the same conclusion. No matter how much Athos juggled with figures, places and distances, Porthos would need at least three days, and only if he never slept, didn't spent more than half an hour at the port in Le Havre searching for a ship that had loaded the bark and was willing to sell it, and if the weather kept dry and warm all through his travel.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan leaned beside the fireplace, raking the poker through the embers and staring into the flickering flames. He dwelt on his own thoughts. He knew he should probably leave the older men alone, granting them a few, possibly last hours together, yet he couldn't bring himself to slip outside. Somehow it felt right to be here. 

A quiet settled over the room, and only the fire's crackle and Aramis' laboured breathing could be heard.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos knew he must have dozed off when he jolted up abruptly. He quickly scanned the room. D'Artagnan was still standing beside the fireplace and the light outside hadn't changed, indicating he couldn't have nodded off for long. Stretching his stiff neck, he heard Aramis' voice beside him. 

“Athos, can you send for Father Grandier? I want to give confession, and also ask him to bring what he needs for the last rites.”

Athos briefly closed his eyes, then patted the sick man's shoulder. “I'll make sure he's here within the hour.”

D'Artagnan, still leaning in the shadows at the far wall, straightened and stepped into the room. “But you can't give up now! Asking for a priest only shows that you surrender. Do you not want to live?”

“D'Artagnan!” Athos hissed angrily. “How dare you say that! It's not your place to speak up, nor is it your business.”

D'Artagnan didn't yield. “I thought you'd be fighters, I thought you'd never give up easily. Do you really want to simply give in now? Don't you think you owe it to Porthos to at least try to stay alive until he's back?”

“Shut up!” Athos growled, rising from the chair. He approached d'Artagnan and grabbed the lapel of the Gascon's doublet. “Get out! You've no idea what you're talking about, boy. It's not your place to speak to Aramis like that. I don't want to see you--”

“Athos,” Aramis breathed weakly, “let go of him. He's right.”

Athos, still gripping d'Artagnan's doublet, turned in disbelief. “What? He dares speak this way and you--”

“He's right. Porthos promised to be back in time and I promised to wait for his return. It would be discourteous of me to die before he's back.” The speech had weakened Aramis and his head sank back on the pillow. “There's still time later for Father Grandier to hear my confession. I was hasty.”

D'Artagnan stepped away from Athos, freeing his lapel with the movement. “You should at least give Porthos the chance to keep his word. He promised he would be back within two days. He has still half a day left to prove he keeps his word. How do you think he would feel if he returns in time and you've already passed away?”

Athos sucked in air sharply, biting down his anger and the harsh remark that lay on the tip of his tongue. D'Artagnan's behaviour was outrageous, and yet he was right. Athos didn't want to imagine the big man's reaction should that be the case. From the very first moment they had heard of the marksman's condition, Athos dreaded Porthos' reaction should this turn out badly.

Athos had buried his brother and killed his wife, yet he had the feeling both had nothing on Porthos' reaction should Aramis die. Even more so, should Aramis pass away before Porthos had had the chance to bid good-bye. Athos ground his teeth, but he had to admit that the boy was right. There was not much left that kept Aramis going, but allowing him to make his confession and get the last rites might just add the final touch to this confounded disease, the last push for Aramis to let go of this life and meet his maker. He glanced at Aramis.

“You're right. I should give him the time he asked for,” Aramis mumbled with closed eyes. “He said he would be back today. I owe it to him to hang on until then.”

Athos looked back at d'Artagnan, and for the first time he saw the young man in a different light. The Gascon suddenly seemed so much more than the rash and impertinent youngster who had stormed into the Garrison like a whirlwind, intent on killing him. There was an understanding and sadness and sobriety to the young man Athos had never seen before, or not cared to see. Athos remembered that the boy had lost his father only a few weeks ago. He cleared his throat. “Very well. Maybe he is right. There’s still six hours until Porthos wanted to be back. Let's grant him that time,” he grumbled.

D'Artagnan looked visibly relieved, his shoulders sagging and the tension draining from his muscles. He turned to leave the room, but was stopped by Athos.

“Can you stay with him?” It was as close to an apology for his harsh words as Athos would ever manage. He was still convinced Aramis should see the priest now, but he also knew Aramis' trust in Porthos knew no limits. “I need to see Tréville, if you could stay until I'm back I'd be.... grateful,” Athos grunted and, without waiting for an answer, strolled by d'Artagnan and left the room.

“Pay no need to his cutting remarks and sour mood. There's a shadow on his soul he cannot shake off,” Aramis said, almost inaudibly, maybe only to himself and not even meant to be heard by the young man.

D'Artagnan resumed his seat by Aramis' side.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“He asked for a priest, but d'Artagnan convinced him to wait and give Porthos the time he said he'd need.” Athos slouched in the chair opposite Tréville's desk. 

Tréville regarded the man in front of him. “And what is your opinion of this? Do you think it's wise to wait?”

Athos stared at a point on the desk and took a moment to answer. “I don't know.”

“You know as well as me that it's as good as impossible to cover that distance in two days.”

“I know. But on the other hand, it's Porthos....”

Tréville didn't yet know what it was with these three men, didn't fully understand what bound them together, but if Athos admitted he did not put it past Porthos to cover the distance in such a short time, for the sake of one of them, he was willing to believe it as well. “Lemay promised to come by as soon as he can slip away from the palace again. He wants to prepare those ingredients he already has for the remedy. Plus he wants to check on Aramis.” He paused for a second. “What's your impression?”

Athos scratched his beard and took his time to answer. “Not good.”

Tréville nodded.

“If you've no other task for me at the moment, I'll go and find Father Grandier. I'll not see Aramis go without giving confession and getting the last rites. I know how much those things mean to him.”

Tréville pointedly looked at Athos.

“I didn't say I won't grant Porthos the time, but I'd like to be prepared. If he's not back in time, Father Grandier will stand by.”

“Right. Dismissed.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lemay came to the garrison in the afternoon. He examined Aramis, and afterwards his face was withdrawn and pensive. He started with his preparations, closely watched by d'Artagnan. When the doctor left the room to get a tankard of fresh water, d'Artagnan trailed him. 

“Will the remedy help him? Is there still time?”

Lemay stopped. “I can't say. If we had started to administer the medicine two days ago, the chances would have been good, based on the Spanish doctors' observations. I don't know about the effect of the remedy if the condition has proceeded so far. It's almost three days since the acute phase started. We definitely don't have much time any more to even start the treatment.”

D'Artagnan stared at Lemay for a moment, then turned abruptly and stalked back to Aramis' room.

Lemay sighed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

An hour later, Father Grandier came to the garrison. He carried a small satchel, and it was safe to assume that it contained a phial of anointment, the priest's tippet, a jar with a consecrated host and probably a bible. First of all, he bent his step towards the captain's office. 

Tréville exchanged a few words with the priest and sent for Athos.

“Thank you for coming,” Athos said when he entered the captain's office. “I'm not sure if Aramis is ready yet, we're still waiting for a friend to return. Nevertheless, I'm sure he'll be happy to see you.”

“If nothing else, I can at least pray with him and anoint him.”

Athos looked at the priest sharply. “I said we want to wait before you give him the last rites. Our friend is due back in a couple of hours.”

Father Grandier countered with a bland smile, sighing. “Sadly, it's a common mistake among the people that the anointing of the sick is reserved for the dying. It is not, it's rather for the benefit of a sick person, to help him heal. It's only that usually people only send for me when it's already too late. But we should ask your friend what he wants.”

Athos didn't reply anything. He had never delved deeply enough into Catholicism to be aware of these things, nor did he care. Without comment, he led the way to Aramis' room. He knocked and entered, Father Grandier trailing behind him. “Aramis, Father Grandier is here.”

The sheets rustled, then Aramis' weak voice could be heard. “Oh, is it already time?”

“No,” Athos said hurriedly. “I just thought it would be good....” He trailed off.

“Maybe, while waiting for your friend's return, we can pray together. Or talk, if you want.” Father Grandier rounded Athos, walking to the bed.

D'Artagnan, who crouched before the fireplace, stirring the embers, glowered at Athos.

Athos shook his head slightly and nodded to the door, requesting the young man to following him outside.

Closing the door behind him, Athos said softly, “It's for the benefit of Aramis, it doesn't mean we don't wait for Porthos.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When the sun started setting, Father Grandier left to celebrate evening mass at his church. 

Lemay had prepared everything he needed to finish the remedy once the Peruvian bark arrived. The jars and cups, and the mortar he would need to pestle the bark, stood ready to use in Aramis' room. He returned to the Louvre to get more opiate from the royal apothecary, and look again at his notes, and promised to return shortly.

From the balcony, Tréville had watched Father Grandier and Dr Lemay leave through the archway. He stood there for a few minutes, gazing at the clouds which turned from light pink to dark pink. Down in the courtyard, old Portellard lit the first torches along the wall. With a deep sigh, he turned and walked to Aramis' room.

After Athos had left the room, Tréville pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. “How are you, son?”

“Not so good,” Aramis tried to joke, but the coarse whisper drained any wit from the reply.

Tréville nodded. “I've never told you, and maybe shouldn't, but you are one of the best soldiers and probably the best marksman I’ve ever had the pleasure to have under my command. The King often neglects to see it, but he should count himself lucky to have such fine men in his ranks.”

Aramis smiled weakly. “Likewise,” was all he could utter, but he saw that his captain understood.

Tréville inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. “Lemay says there's not much time left.” He stared at his hands, avoiding the marksman's gaze. “There's something I need to tell you. It's.... it's been on my mind for too long.”

Savoy had weighed on him since the day he had had to count and identify the slaughtered Musketeers and bring home the lone survivor, and it seemed the feeling of guilt and shame grew heavier and heavier the more time passed. He knew it would be for his benefit only, and not Aramis', that it was an attempt to lessen his guilt, but he couldn't bring himself to refrain from telling the truth now. Besides, it seemed right to tell the truth, the least he could do for this man who had suffered so much from the wrongdoing of his captain. Tréville took a deep breath before he continued. “I'm sure you remember that --” He was interrupted.

Athos entered after a quick knock. “Captain, Arnaud has arrived with an urgent missive. I think you had better come immediately.”

Tréville looked between Athos and Aramis. It seemed his confession would have to wait, though he wasn't sure if he would pluck up the courage again later to tell the marksman the truth behind that cursed training mission to Savoy. He was torn between staying a couple of minutes more and getting it over with, and see to the urgent business Arnaud had been tasked with. His sense of duty prevailed. “I'll come back,” he said, giving Aramis' arm a reassuring squeeze.

Athos took over Tréville's seat.

“Where's d'Artagnan?”

“Sitting in the courtyard, staring at the archway. I'm not sure he’s blinked once within the last hour. He's trying to will Porthos back through sheer force of will.” There was a hint of amusement in Athos' voice.

“Do you know what Tréville wanted?”

“No.”

A prolonged silence followed.

“Have you ever loved? Found the one love greater than anything else?” When Athos didn't reply, Aramis carried on, in a voice that was no longer his; a voice that was stripped of the seductive warmth and soft deepness and genteel irony and vulnerable honesty that was Aramis. A voice that was barely more than a whisper now, abraded by the effects of an illness that was sucking the last drop of life from him. “You have, I can see it.” He had to stop and draw breath; he couldn't get enough air into his lungs any more to speak more than a few words. And every breath hurt. “You can't fool me, I know the ways a man drowns in alcohol when he's lost the love of his life.” Panting, he gulped in air again. “Believe me, I was there.”

Athos raised a brow. Not so much because he was surprised by Aramis' ability to look through his carefully arranged façade so easily, right into his wounded soul. No, he was surprised by the way Aramis spoke of deep loving. He knew the marksman as the Garrison's grandest charmer and ladies' man, seemingly loving women as a whole, too much in love with women per se to settle his heart on only one. It seemed Athos had been wrong in his assumption.

“I have. Her name was Isabelle.”

Athos was still searching for a pertinent reply when Tréville entered the room again.

“Athos, I need you and Bussonier for a delicate mission tomorrow, you must leave before dawn. Report to me an hour before sunrise.” His gaze wandered to Aramis. The room was poorly lit by the fire, now that it was dark outside, and Tréville walked to the table to light some candles. “Where's the boy?” he asked casually.

“I presume he's still on his look-out in the yard,” Athos replied. Porthos was overdue by a couple of hours now, and he wondered how long the Gascon would hold out at his post. Father Grandier had promised to come by after mass again, and Athos awaited him any minute. 

Suddenly, there was commotion outside, and with a bang the door burst open, crashing against the wall. “He's here! Porthos is back!” d'Artagnan shouted excitedly, rushing into the room.

Outside, they could already hear the pounding of heavy boots on wooden planks, and voices calling through the courtyard. A moment later Porthos' big frame filled the doorway, and then he was inside the room and on his knees beside Aramis' bed.

“I'm back, _mon ami_.”

Aramis looked him over. “You look awful. And you're late.”

Porthos huffed and rose, only to sway dangerously once he was upright. Tréville stepped forward, grabbing his arm to support the big man. With his other hand, he dragged the spare stool over. “Here, sit down.”

Porthos shoved the bundle into Athos' arms. “There's the bark. Should be enough for the whole regiment.” Then he sank down on the stool.

Athos handed the bundle to Dr Lemay who had entered the room in Porthos' wake.

Lemay began unwrapping it, his eyes immediately lighting up when he caught sight of the amount of fine Peruvian bark. He instantly set about breaking away small chunks.

Athos regarded Porthos. The dark skin was pale, almost white, mottled with smudges of dirt and the half-lidded eyes were bloodshot, with dark rings edging them. His clothes were dishevelled and dirty and the sleeves smeared with blood. He looked utterly worn out.

When Father Grandier appeared in the door frame, looking surprised to find so many men in the small room, Tréville promptly took the matter in hand. “All right, everyone out, except for Dr Lemay. Porthos, you look like you are going to faint any minute. Go to bed. D'Artagnan, help him. Father, I'd like to speak to you for a moment. With you, too, Lemay, when you're finished here.” While talking, Tréville ushered everyone out and closed the door. As Porthos stumbled by, Tréville clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The following two nights and two days – almost the exact amount of time Porthos had needed for his trip – they feared for Aramis' life more than ever. The remedy seemed not to be having any effect, no matter how much Dr Lemay administered, or experimented with the dosage. Sometimes, Aramis was so short of breath and struggling for air that they feared he would suffocate. The fever remained high and his body was racked with shivers, and pain. He wasn't able to stomach anything any more and often had to throw up, and worst of all, he was barely responsive most of the time. Only the cough had eased off, and he was no longer coughing blood. 

After d’Artagnan accompanied Porthos to his room and tucked him up in bed – fully clothed, only stripped of his boots and doublet – Porthos had slept for fifteen hours, dead to the world. After waking up, he had eaten three times his usual amount, and then he had sat beside Aramis' bed and not moved from the chair since. Once or twice he had nearly fallen asleep, swaying in the chair.

D'Artagnan had spent as much time as possible with them, and had been given a full report of how Porthos had managed to outwit time and make the trip in just a bit over 48 hours. He had listened in awe, and more than ever longed to be part of this fellowship of men. He knew he had it in him to one day become as fearless and daredevil as the Inseparables.

Athos had been away on mission a day and half of the ensuing night, and then returned to Aramis' room to check on his comrades. He had silently slipped from the room after he had assured himself that Aramis was still alive and being cared for; his condition had not made a turn for the worst, even though it hadn't improved either. Instead of making his way to his favourite tavern, he had slumped on the bench at their usual table in the courtyard and filled a cup with the cheap red wine the garrison provided for the Musketeers. It would have to suffice. There he had sat, brooding, until the first foreboding of the new day had put out its feelers on the dark night sky.

At nightfall on the second day after Porthos' return, finally, Aramis opened his eyes, and they were no longer glazed with fever and fatigue. When he spoke, his voice had lost some of its scratchiness and panting. “Tell me, _mon ami,_ ” he said to Porthos, “how did you manage to mistreat your health in the way you did, looking like a walking corpse when you arrived back here, and _still_ not be on time?”

Porthos' relieved, booming laughter not only startled d'Artagnan from his slumber in the far corner, but also reached Tréville and Athos who were standing on the balcony, discussing the next steps in a tricky matter. They paused, astounded by the sound, looking at each other. A smirk appeared on Tréville's face. “I think Aramis is out of the woods.”

Athos nodded. It was the only sound explanation for Porthos' loud, liberating laugh. He lifted one corner of his mouth, countering his captain's relieved smirk. The sound of Porthos' guffaw, joined by d'Artagnan’s, took a heavy load off Athos' mind. Now, finally, he could return to the daily routine without having his mind elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no knowledge of medicine, and no idea what might work or not. Everything about the remedy to cure pulmonary splenic fever is made up by me, however, that doesn't mean it wouldn't possibly have worked. Maybe.
> 
> _Argentum colloidale_ was used until the beginning of the 20th century for infectious diseases caused by bacteria and mycosis.
> 
> _Propolis_ , or bee glue, is said to have – to a certain degree – antimicrobial, virostatic, antimycotic and antibiotic effects. So that sounds pretty good to help cure a lot of things!
> 
> _Peruvian Bark_ is, or was, a remedy for all forms of malaria. It's indigenous in the Western Andes of South America and was first described and introduced by Jesuit priests, hence also the name Jesuit's Bark (or China Bark or cinchona bark). A greater distribution in Europe resulted from the large quantity brought over by a Jesuit priest who came to Spain in 1643, from there it proceeded through France and thence to Italy. Incidentally, Peruvian bark allegedly cured the young Louis XIV while still dauphin, effected by Jesuit Father Bartholomé Tafur, but maybe that's just a story made up by someone else. In any case, I'm convinced our fantastic Dr Lemay would have been able to put together some kind of remedy with these ingredients to save Aramis. It just had to work!


	3. Chapter 3

Epilogue

_A few days later_

“Tell me, my friend,” Aramis said, casually throwing his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders, and so hindering the young man’s escape. ”What did you do to upset Serge? Athos is a bit reluctant to share this information.”

“Why don't you ask Serge, if you're so keen on finding out?” d'Artagnan replied, wriggling his shoulders to get out of Aramis' grip.

“You're a bit cheeky for a man in your position, pup.” Porthos materialised in front of the young man, blocking his path and towering over him.

“If Athos won’t tell you, why should I?” d'Artagnan replied defiantly. “He'll have his reasons and so do I.”

“Well, that sounds logical.” Aramis still had a tight hold on the Gascon, though with less strength than usual. The sickness had weakened him and he was not fully recovered yet. Smiling sweetly, he said, “I'd just thought we were friends, and friends tell each other everything.”

“Yeah, that was my idea of friendship as well,” added Porthos.

“Friends care for each other and look out for each other. I mean, why do you think you haven't been snatched from some dark corner until now and put through the initiation ritual?” Aramis let go of d'Artagnan's shoulder, looking expectantly at the boy. “So far, none of our comrades has dared do so because you're friends with us. And they respect that. Just as an example.”

“Dared is not the right word, though. It's not that the initiation ritual would be anything out of the ordinary, everyone has to do it. It's kind of fun,” Porthos remarked.

“Yes. Fun. Well, for the others at least, a shade less for the rookie,” Aramis said apologetically.

Porthos chuckled. “We've all been through it, haven't we?”

“Well, I haven't,” Aramis pointed out. “I was here when the regiment was founded, so no initiation ritual for me. And so far as I remember no one dared to even think about giving you the ritual. They all were too afraid of you.”

Porthos looked thoughtfully at Aramis. “Yes, you're right. And Athos, when he joined, was spared because Tréville flatly refused to allow anyone to harm a _comte_. Right?” 

“Quite so. But it's really nothing you'd have to be frightened of. It's not really dangerous.” Aramis flashed a false smile at d'Artagnan.

“Nothing has ever happened. Nothing serious.”

Aramis gazed at Porthos, replying, “Well, Hubert died.”

Porthos stared at Aramis for a moment, and it looked like both men had forgotten about the Gascon, who watched them with ever-widening eyes. “That was unfortunate,” said Porthos and turned, walking over towards the mess.

Aramis followed him. “And Yves lost a leg and Jean-Baptiste his right eye.”

“That was really his own fault. No one could be blamed for it.”

“Agreed! Oh, and I saw Jean just a few weeks ago. Do you remember him?”

“Jean with the gammy knees? How's he doing?”

They had strolled away from d'Artagnan and the boy started trailing behind so he didn't miss what was said.

Aramis shrugged his shoulders. “He looked fine to me. He's still selling baskets at the market. I haven't spoken to him, you know he doesn't speak to any of us any more.”

Porthos sighed. “Yes, it's really a pity about Jean.”

“I complained about the food!” D'Artagnan's shout carried over the courtyard.

Aramis and Porthos stopped and turned, looking at d'Artagnan with an expression of growing horror on their faces. “You did what?” both asked simultaneously in a tone that sounded like Tréville had just revealed to them that he had killed the King personally by cutting out their sovereign's heart and eating it afterwards.

D'Artagnan closed the distance between them and hissed, “I simply said that he forgot to put marjoram into the stew.”

Aramis and Porthos stared at the boy with wide eyes.

“You said what?” asked Porthos.

“Listen, I only told him the only way to make a _gabure_ is how my mother made it, and no one makes a _gabure_ like my mother did, and that he needed to at least add marjoram and _jambon de Bayonne_ , not some kind of--” D'Artagnan was interrupted.

“Stop it, please!” Porthos said with a pleading undertone in his voice, throwing glances over his shoulders, apparently to check if Serge was anywhere within earshot.

“I can't believe Athos didn't shoot you there and then,” Aramis declared unbelievingly, his voice shocked. “I can't believe he let you live.”

“But what--”

“Let's say no more about it! What you did is worse than treason,” Porthos hissed, his thunderous stare making d'Artagnan quiver.

Aramis shook his head, tsking disapprovingly. “Come,” he said to Porthos, and both men turned their back on the young Gascon and walked away, leaving him behind.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They only just managed to reach Aramis' quarters before they erupted into laughter, tears streaming from their eyes. Aramis soon was short of breath due to his recent lung disease, and Porthos had problems keeping upright, continuously doubling over, apparently not able to stop laughing any time soon. 

Athos, who was leaning beside the fire place, perked an eyebrow up and watched them with a stern face. After a while, a warm smile spread over his face, and, as was rarely the case, it even reached his eyes, making them shine like dark emeralds. He knew he would regret it soon, but right now it just felt good to see both his friends laughing their heads off on account of some mischief they had done. Too close still was the fear he had felt that both of them might be taken away from him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Porthos!” 

Tréville's shout reached Porthos on his way up the stairs, and he hurried to his captain's office.

“Tell me, how many more complaints about maltreated horses do I have to expect?” Tréville flung down the paper he'd read.

Porthos looked embarrassed, his eyes wandering erratically. “Erm, well, depends on how many you’ve already had?”

Tréville sighed. “Two about dead horses, four about maltreated ones and one innkeeper complains about the ill manners and impertinent tone of the King's Musketeers as a whole. He says he's going to submit a complaint to the King. So?”

Porthos seemed to silently calculate, using his fingers to sum up the figures in his head.

“Forget it. I'll find a way to either pay them or reject their complaints.” Tréville regarded Porthos for a moment. “I still haven't worked out how you managed to cover the distance in such a short time.”

“You hold the explanation for it in your hands.” Porthos pointed to the papers on the captain's desk. “In short, I didn't rest. I didn't sleep and I didn't eat and I only drank some water when I changed the horses. I spurred the horses all the way and when they started to slow down I exchanged them. I didn't leave the saddle for longer than a minute or two. Sometimes I had to appropriate a horse by sheer force, from a salesman on the road, a passer-by or a farmer, but I always paid for it.”

“I also received two complaints from Le Havre. How exactly did you find a Spanish ship and negotiate with the crew?” Tréville squinted at Porthos. “You couldn't have spent more than an hour at the port, if my calculation is right.”

Porthos shuffled with his feet and scratched his neck. “That's not easily explained. I've been to Le Havre before and know someone at the port whom I asked for help.”

“Someone with connections to Spain? Why was the crew willing to circumvent Spanish law and sell the bark to you? Did you act as a Musketeer and negotiate with the ship's captain?”

“With all due respect, captain, I'm not sure if you'd really want to know how the bark got into my possession.” Porthos stared at a point somewhere above Tréville's head, his mien unreadable. “I think, in your position, it'd be best if you didn’t know.”

Tréville mulled over Porthos' words for a moment, eyeing the big man thoughtfully. “Could it be considered as treason?”

“No, sir,” came the prompt reply.

“Could it reflect badly on His Majesty or the regiment?”

Porthos hesitated for a tiny moment before answering, “No, it will not.”

Tréville exhaled slowly. “Did you bring back any of the extra coins Athos slipped you?” This time, there was amusement in his voice.

Porthos lowered his eyes and looked at this captain. A smirk spread on his face when he answered, “No.”

Tréville shook his head slightly, as if chiding himself for allowing his men to get away with their behaviour. “I thought so. You're a good and reliable soldier. Dismissed.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“D'Artagnan, I'd like to discuss something with you. I believe you would be the right man to help us get hold of a man called Vadim. It would mean putting you at risk, but if you're still determined to become a Musketeer, this would be a good chance to demonstrate your quality.” 

D'Artagnan beamed at the captain, nodding animatedly. “Yes, of course!”

Tréville put his plan forward, the young man listening intently. “All right. I'll give you more details as soon as the plan is worked out.”

D'Artagnan rose and made his way to the door. There he lingered for a moment before he addressed the captain once more. “I know that only the King can commission a Musketeer, but I wonder if there is some kind of initiation ritual? Something that shows someone is a part of the regiment, a new recruit. Before he earns his commission.”

Tréville stared at the young man, then his expression changed. He furrowed his brows and squinted his eyes. “If Aramis or Porthos are trying to make you believe that I would tolerate any kind of dare or ritual within the garrison, then you would be wise to quickly forget about it. Because I do not.” When he saw the Gascon's relieved face, he added, “Let me give you some advice: If they try to worm a secret out of you by telling you lurid tales of alleged traditions, don't fall for it.”

D'Artagnan nodded and left.

Tréville allowed himself a smirk. From the way d'Artagnan's smile had faded upon hearing the last words, Tréville would bet any money that his advice had come too late.

 

_FIN._

**Author's Note:**

> The Musketeers are property of Alexandre Dumas and BBC One. I only borrowed the characters and the concept of the show for this work of fan fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.


End file.
